As the boat headed toward deeper waters, I lay back on the bench, vainly trying to catch up on some of the hours of slumber I'd lost the previous night.
I would wake only briefly, lazily opening one eye when the mate, a large, tanned man with a moustache and waders, was pulling one of the fishing rods off of the ceiling in his never-ending chore of keeping the lines in the water.
We'd woken up at 2 a.m. to start this trip, and six of us drove from North Jersey to the town of Montauk, on the edge of Long Island, to take a charter boat out in the wee hours of a Monday morning.
Half a day later, we had caught our fair share of bluefish and striped bass when the captain, an older man whose white beard gave him a passing resemblance to Hemingway, asked us if we'd like to go out a little further in search of shark.
"They're biting," he told us.
As far as I know, there's only three types of sharks that swim in the waters around New Jersey that taste good when eaten: the thresher, the mako, and the legendary great white.
Some years ago I caught a massive blue shark, and fought him for 20 minutes before we figured out that once we landed him, he couldn't be taken home-and it's always better when you can eat what you've caught.
We agreed, and hoped that we'd be luckier this time around-an hour's ride later, we could barely see the outline of the land on the horizon.
Even at 15 miles off shore, the waters were calm; typically at that distance, boisterous waves smash the stern with enough force to make even the hardiest of souls seasick.
But this tranquil Atlantic made sleeping easier, and because shark fishing can sometimes be interminably tedious, most of us on the boat began nodding off in some fashion or another.
An hour went by before a cry from the boat's captain broke my slumber.
"It's a shark! He's got a mako on the far line!"
Instantly I was up, stumbling around the cabin bleary-eyed searching for my camera, and the back deck of the charter became a maelstrom of activity with the captain coming down from the bridge as the mate scrambled, preparing the harpoon and the "bang stick" (a special underwater firearm that employs a long tube and a shotgun shell) for their deadly work.
About 50 yards out, the mako somersaulted out of the water, a beautiful flash of blue and silver against the sky, before plummeting back down, drawing out the line on reel once again.
It took 10 minutes before the shark was able to be reeled in close enough for a gaff (a long pole with a steel hook on the end) to be used to hold the shark in place. A rope was then tied around the tail to better control its thrashes.
My father held the gaff while the mate lined up his shot; seconds later, with a swift movement, he launched the harpoon into the mako's side.
"I got him!" he yelled to the captain, and pulled the body of the harpoon away, leaving the head lodged above the shark's gills.
The captain then moved forward and, with a hard strike, punched the shark's head with the end of the bang stick. A loud crack was heard as the shell went off, and blood quickly began to flow into the water and lap the sides of the boat.
With that, the shark began its death rolls, and the rage leaked out of it with every ounce of blood that spilled into the ocean.
Eventually, it would be strung up by the tail to ensure that it was completely dead before bringing the six-foot, 125 pound mako (along with its jagged, intimidating teeth) on board.
As I leaned over the side of the boat, I stared into its black poker chip eyes.
When the boat would dip to the side, the shark would be submerged again, and its lungs would flex to life and the eyes would momentarily stir, only to flatten out again as the oxygen left its system.
It was, indeed, an unequivocal triumph over one of the sea's consummate killers.
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